


Mirror Plane

by withdiamonds



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-11-02
Updated: 2008-11-02
Packaged: 2017-10-13 04:35:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/132969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/withdiamonds/pseuds/withdiamonds
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Winchesters all have something in common.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mirror Plane

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers through 4.07. Originally posted 11/2008. Written for spn_flashfic, prompt "promises."

Mary’s eyes fly open in terror. She only breathes when she feels the heat behind her, the weight of John’s hand on her hip, the warmth of his breath on her shoulder. Then the sound of his neck snapping echoes in her ears and she shudders in his arms.

It’s dark still, the coming day held safely at bay by the blackness of the night.

In the morning they’ll bury her parents. Then no more, Mary vows, no more sacrifices. She’ll keep John safe.

Mary closes her eyes again and her lips move silently, prayer and promise in the dark.

*

Dean doesn’t have bad dreams very often. He’s a happy kid and he plays hard. At night, when John tucks him into bed, his eyelashes flutter against his chubby cheeks while he murmurs sleepily, “’Night, Daddy,” in his soft, little boy voice.

He sleeps deep and peaceful.

Sometimes, though, sometimes his screams pierce the night. Then John rests his hand on Mary’s swollen belly and says, “Stay, I’ve got him.” Mary smiles gratefully up at him and he goes to his son, goes to him and promises that as long as Daddy’s here, nothing bad will happen to him.

*

Dean’s head is filled with words, but he can’t make them come out. There are too many of them and if he forces them out they’ll hurt too much. He wants Mommy but he’s afraid if he cries for her, he won’t be able to stop.

Daddy’s face scares him, too, and Dean’s throat closes when he sees the darkness there.

But he looks down at his baby brother, peering solemnly up at him over the edge of his blanket, and Dean’s lips part enough to let a whisper slip through. “Don’t worry, Sammy. I’ll take care of you. I promise.”

*

Sammy picks the crumpled wrapping paper up off the floor. He smoothes it under his hands, wondering what it would be like to live in a house with a real Christmas tree, a huge pile of presents sitting under it, just waiting for him and Dean to tear into.

Presents that aren’t wrapped in old newspaper, but honest-to-God wrapping paper. He has friends at school who live like that. People who aren’t spending Christmas alone in a crappy motel while their father hunts for monsters in the dark.

People whose fathers don’t break their promises to their kids.

*

Sam grits his teeth against the pain. He won’t let Dean or his dad know how much it hurts. He closes his eyes and swallows.

Dean grips Sam’s arm too tight as the Impala swerves across the slippery highway. Dad’s driving too fast, taking curves like the werewolf is still after them, instead of dead in the dark with a silver bullet through its heart.

“Sam!” Dean’s voice penetrates the fog Sam’s let drift over him. “Stay with me, Sammy.” He sounds scared, which isn’t like Dean at all.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Sam mumbles, his lips cold and numb.

*

Sam’s eyes burn with anger, and if John chooses to ignore the hurt on his son’s face, well, he’s angry, too. Furious, in fact, that Sam thinks he can just leave. Leave him and Dean, _his family_ , behind, while he goes off to pursue _normal_ like it’s some sort of Holy Grail.

Sammy doesn’t know it yet, but he can’t outrun this thing, and John is consumed with the need to keep him safe.

“If you go,” John growls through a throat tight with paralyzing fear, “Don’t bother coming back.”

“I won’t, Dad,” Sam retorts. “You can count on it.”

*

Dean watches as grief and anger play over his father’s face. Grief for their mother, for all the lives lost, Caleb, Jim, all of them. Anger that he won’t be part of killing that yellow-eyed son of a bitch after years of searching. His hunger for it is absolute.

Dean’s entire life has been about this, Sam’s too, and if John can’t be there for the culmination of it, they will be. Failure now is inconceivable.

“Don’t worry, Dad. We’ll do this, we’ll get that yellow-eyed bastard.”

“I know you will, son.” John’s faith is unassailable and terrible.

*

 _I’ll save you if it’s the last thing I do._

Dean’s words resonate in Sam’s head. Can anyone save him? What if destiny can override free will? There’s a dull pain behind Sam’s eyes, but he forces himself to keep going, one foot in front of the other

“Hey.” Dean elbows him sharply in the ribs. “I’m only going to ask you this one more time, Sammy,” he says, warningly.

Sam blinks at his brother. “What?”

“Pizza, or,” Dean points up the road, “That diner over there.” He glares at Sam.

Sam huffs out an unwilling laugh. “Pizza, you freak.”

 

*

 _There’s only a week left, Dean. Enjoy it._

Dean hears laughter and he whirls, throwing a punch into the empty darkness that surrounds him. A hand grabs his shoulder, shaking him, and he spins around again. This time his fist connects with something solid.

“Ow. Son of a bitch.”

“Sam?” Dean shakes his head to clear it. He must have dozed off in the chair, and now he’s standing over his brother, knuckles aching.

Sam looks up at him with sad eyes and says the same thing he always says.

“Don’t worry, Dean. We’ll find a way to save you.”

*

Anger radiates off Dean in waves, enough that Sam almost misses the fear behind it.

“What the fuck, Sam?” Dean yells.

“I didn’t have a choice, Dean.” Sam wants to be angry, too, but the best he can come up with is a sort of resigned exhaustion.

“You always have a choice, Sam.” Sam wonders when Dean became so sure of everything he thinks he knows. “You said you wouldn’t do that anymore. You promised,” Dean hisses.

“Fine,” Sam says. “Next time I’ll just let everyone die.”

Dean doesn’t have an answer for that, Sam knows, because there isn’t one.


End file.
